


pie-maker dead-waker

by catbeans



Series: han bakes pies and wakes the dead [1]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Pushing Daisies AU, i dont think it counts as major character death if hes only dead for like a day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 11:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12725772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbeans/pseuds/catbeans
Summary: Han realized he was not like the other children, nor was he like anyone else; young Han could touch dead things and bring them back to life.There was no box for this gift he had been given by no one in particular, no instructions or manufacturer's warranty. The terms of use weren't immediately clear, or of immediate concern; young Han was in love.His name was Luke.





	pie-maker dead-waker

**Author's Note:**

> you dont need any background knowledge of pd for this to make sense but if you havent watched it i Highly Recommend doing so bc its Adorable and id love more people to talk with about this au because i love it

At that very moment, young Han was nine years, twenty-seven weeks, six days and three minutes old. His dog, Digby, was three years, two weeks, six days, five hours and nine minutes old, and not a minute older before meeting his maker at the front of a large semi.

Han felt frozen, even as he walked into the road, crouching down to give his beloved dog one final pet, with the mostly hopeless hope that he might get up.

He did.

This was the moment Han realized he was not like the other children, nor was he like anyone else; young Han could touch dead things and bring them back to life.

As he followed Digby back home, he didn't see when a squirrel fell from a tree nearby, as dead as Digby had been exactly one minute earlier.

His mother swatted a fly against the window, which dropped to the counter below it, too engrossed in her baking to notice when Han crept over to touch it, and it flew away again.

There was no box for this gift he had been given by no one in particular, no instructions or manufacturer's warranty. The terms of use weren't immediately clear, or of immediate concern; young Han was in love.

His name was Luke.

At that very moment he was eight years, forty-two weeks, three hours and two minutes old. Young Han didn't think of him as being born or hatched or conceived in any way--Luke came ready-made from the Play-Doh Fun Factory of Life.

In their imaginations, young Han and Luke conquered the world, two dinosaurs in their homemade costumes stomping down their Play-Doh city, leaving them both covered in dirt and grass and clumps of clay that Han’s mother had to sweep off of him with a broom before allowing him any further than the doorway.

Long after their play date, Han remained firmly under Luke's spell, until a blood vessel in his mother’s brain burst, killing her instantly.

Han was stunned into silence, frozen like he had been with Digby, sliding out of his chair in a daze to sit where she had fallen flat on the floor.

He slowly reached out to tap his fingertip to her cheek.

She got up like nothing had happened.

“Must have slipped,” she said, laughing it off as she went back to the oven; Han couldn't speak. “Did the timer go off?”

Young Han’s mysterious gift came with a caveat or two.

He didn't realize until the timer did go off, one minute later, and when he looked out the window to Luke's yard across the street, his father had dropped like a bag of bricks.

It was a gift that not only gave, it took. Young Han discovered he could only bring the dead back to life for one minute without consequence--any longer, and someone else had to die.

In the grand, universal scheme of things, Han had traded his mother’s life for Luke's father’s.

His heart felt heavy as his mother got his bed ready for him, staring out the window to the ambulance taking Luke's father away, the lights off and the sirens silent.

“Come on, big guy, time for bed.”

There was still that second caveat, one more thing about touching dead things that young Han didn't know yet, and he learned it in the most unfortunate way.

His mother dropped to the floor the instant she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Han climbed back out of bed; it had worked before, so he could see no reason it wouldn't work again, but his mother didn't get up, no matter how many times he touched her face or shook her arm.

And so he learned.

First touch: life. Second touch: dead, again, forever.

Their funerals were in tandem, a pastor reading over his mother as a rabbi read over Luke's father, easy to see if either of them looked just to the side.

After a brief mourning period, young Han’s father would ship him off to boarding school, never to be seen again. Luke would be fostered by his aunt and uncle Beru and Owen, who shared a matching anxiety-bordering-on-paranoia about their nephew’s safety after the death of his father, and a passion for backyard farming that carried over into muddy workboots with their best clothes at a cemetery.

At their respective parent’s funerals, dizzy with grief and curiosity and hormones, young Han and Luke shared their first and only kiss.

Han avoided personal attachments after his mother’s death, fearing what he might do if someone else he loved died, and he became obsessed with pies.

It was nineteen years, thirty-four weeks, one day and fifty-nine minutes later, heretofore known as Now. Young Han had become The Pie Maker, making his baking in a tall corner building with a massive, perfectly baked pie crust decorating the outside wall and a single employee whose laser-focus and ability to read people, while occasionally intimidating, made her very good at selling pies.

The peaches never browned, dead fruit in his hands becoming ripe and crisp with an everlasting sweetness, as long as he only touched it once.

“Every day,” Leia said, running into the same speech she had recently started giving every new customer, although Chewie was not that, “I pick a pie, and I put all my love into that pie, and at the end of the day, guess what.”

“No.”

She continued like he hadn't said anything. “We sell more of that flavor than any of the other ones.”

She held her pencil above the pad of paper, gesturing for Chewie to answer when he didn't play along with her scripted prompts.

“And which one’s that?”

“Rhubarb.”

“Three-plum.”

Leia rolled her eyes and made her way back to the counter.

Chewbacca-goes-by-Chewie was the sole keeper of Han's secret, a private investigator who had met Han when the Pie Hole was on the brink of financial ruin, chasing a suspect across rooftops until that suspect fell to his temporary death, breaking his spine on the same dumpster Han was on his way to at that very moment.

The body had fallen backwards, and Chewie watched from the roof as he fell against Han, who had to dart after him before he made it to the street.

The suspect only made it a few feet before crumpling to the ground with one touch to the back of his neck.

“Oh, ew, ew--”

Han had looked up, all the color draining from his face when he saw Chewie’s peering over the edge above him.

Chewie just grinned.

He proposed a partnership: murders are much more easily solved when you can ask the victim who killed them, and with the Pie Hole hanging in the balance, Han had reluctantly agreed.

Han waited until Leia was out of earshot before leaning across the table towards Chewie.

“I asked you not to call them that.”

“Zombies?”

“It’s disrespectful.”

“Living dead?”

“They're not dead, for the minute.”

“Undead.”

“You're either alive or you're dead, they're not un-anything, they're just.” Han gestured vaguely in front of himself before dropping back in his seat with a huff. “Alive...again. They're alive again. That's so much nicer.”

He shut his mouth conspicuously quickly when Leia came back over with a plate of three-plum.

“Can you lock the door on your way out?”

Leia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she nodded, and Chewie waited for the lock to click before putting his fork down.

“So are you in or not?”

“Which is this one, again?”

“You haven't seen the TV?”

Han shook his head.

Chewie grunted and picked up his plate to lead Han to the kitchen, switching on the old television and turning the knob a couple times, landing on a news channel with a grumble about how Han couldn't just find a remote like a normal person.

_“--of a lonely tourist whose name has not yet been released, allegedly murdered on a cruise ship…”_

The shot cut to footage of a body being hauled from the water.

Han was more used to the dead than anyone really should be, and any squeamish tendencies he might have had had disappeared when he was a child; that familiarity did nothing to keep away a chill like someone had walked over his grave, sending a shudder up his spine, and he didn't realize he had forgotten to breathe until Chewie nudged his arm.

“Lot going on with that dead guy,” he said.

“That so.”

“$50,000 worth of ‘that so,’ if you were interested.”

It was a conversation they had had countless times before, but there was still that unsettling feeling picking at the back of his head.

“I could be persuaded,” Han said slowly.

“Better get persuaded quick, ‘cause this dead guy’s about to go in the ground.”

“They only just--”

“He’s Jewish, they don't leave ‘em lying around.”

Han’s heart thudded against his ribcage.

“This guy got a name?”

“Yeah, it’s…” Chewie patted down his pockets for a pad of paper that he had left in his office. “Skywalker something. Something-Skywalker, it’s his last name.”

Han forgot how to breathe again.

“Luke.”

 

Han couldn't stop tapping at the steering wheel while he drove to his childhood hometown for the first time in nearly twenty years, an anxious pit in his stomach that only grew heavier with each mile marker and stopped him from giving more than one-word answers whenever Chewie tried to make conversation, until:

“You know this guy.”

“I know _of_ him.”

“Know of in the biblical sense?”

Han grimaced. “I haven't even thought about him since I was ten,” he lied.

“Think about him a lot when you were ten?” Chewie asked, and Han could hear that obnoxiously smug grin without having to look at him.

“I don't remember anything from when I was ten.”

Han’s eye twitched, and Chewie decided not to say anything about it.

The Pie Maker remembered everything.

 

Luke Skywalker, twenty-eight years, twenty-four weeks, three days, eleven hours and fifty-one minutes old, was found floating in the ocean moments after his body was discarded there. Discarded by whom seemed to be a question only Luke Skywalker could answer.

The funeral director, always eager to supplement his income, was more than happy to grant the deceased an audience for enough of a bargain.

Han stopped at the doorway to the viewing room.

“Can I do this one alone?”

Chewie turned back from the door with a raised eyebrow.

“On account of the...” He paused and swallowed thickly. “Historical context.”

“Something personal you gotta say?”

“No.” Han’s eye twitched again, and Chewie pointed it out this time. “Maybe. A little.”

Chewie’s eyebrow crept higher.

“I just have to--apologize. For something. One of those stupid things kids do when they don't know what they're doing.”

“Just make sure you ask who killed him first.”

“I know.”

“One minute.”

“I--”

“Sixty seconds.”

“I _know,”_ Han said, opening the door just enough to squeeze himself in. “I got it.”

The room was brightly lit and as still as the dead childhood sweetheart in the cream-colored casket propped up in the center of the room.

Han had made plenty of dead people alive again in morgues, or the occasional crime scene if they got there early enough; the former was easier, sterile and impersonal, the latter still slightly unnerving, but he didn't _know_ any of those people.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he gingerly pulled open the heavy lid of the casket.

Luke was pristine in a way none of Han’s other dead bodies had been, with a thick coat of makeup to bring the color back to his seemingly sleeping face; he would almost look peaceful if Han would have been able to forget that he had died with a bag over his head before being thrown into the ocean.

His hair was a little longer than the last time Han had seen him, his face filled out but still soft around the edges.

Han’s finger hovered a few inches from Luke's face.

He had never put much thought into where to touch anyone else, but a great deal of it went into this; the lips were too forward, but the cheek--

The cheek.

He barely registered the faint shock when his fingertip tapped Luke's skin before there was a rough tug on his tie and his head smacked against the opened lid of the casket.

 _“Ow,_ Christ--”

“Who are you?”

In the four seconds between Han’s head hitting the casket, stumbling back, and straightening up as he rubbed at his forehead, Luke had managed to tumble out, grabbing a chair and holding it in front of him like a weapon.

“Where--?”

“Do you remember the kid who lived across the street when your dad died?” Han asked, holding his hands up in case Luke didn't and decided to take a swing at him.

Luke lowered the chair to the ground, a grin spreading across his face that made Han's heart pound. _“Han?”_

Han jerked his head in a quick nod.

“Oh my god, hey, how are--?”

Han had to take a couple steps back when Luke held out a hand towards him.

“I'm. Good, how are--” He cut himself off and cleared his throat. “You look...do you know what’s happening right now?”

Luke frowned and dropped his hand at his side. “I had this dream, I was being strangled, and then--”

“You _were_ strangled.” Han winced. “I could have put that better. You died.”

Luke's eyes narrowed, and then went very wide. “Oh.” He looked back to the empty casket. _“Oh.”_

“You only got a minute,” Han said. “Less, now.”

Luke's shoulders sagged. “Is this the afterlife?” He cringed. “Are you dead too?”

Han shook his head.

“What am I supposed to do in less than a minute?” Luke asked. “Is this, like, to say goodbye? Or…”

“It's to tell me who killed you,” Han said awkwardly. “So. Y’know. Justice can be served.”

It sounded better than _so I can collect a reward to split with my business partner who is waiting outside,_ but this time, it was closer to the truth, and _so justice can be served_ sounded better than all of the things that Han truly had to say.

Luke made a face like he had stepped in something unseemly. “That's nice of you, i guess, but I don't know. I was getting ice, and I dropped my room key in the ice machine, and I thought, ‘that was dumb,’ and then I couldn't breathe.” He shrugged. “And then you touched my cheek.”

Han felt like he was melting.

“Why only one minute?”

“I can’t keep you alive any longer,” Han said, even though he didn't want to.

“So, what, you touch me again, and.” Luke held his hands out in front of him, spreading his fingers like a burst. “Poof?”

“That’s the gist of it,” Han said quietly, but he didn't get the chance to say anything else before he jumped at a sharp pounding on the door and Chewie telling him to hurry up.

“Is this it?” Luke asked.

“I'm sorry.” Han’s throat felt tight when he tried to take a deep breath. “You were...” Of all the things he'd wanted to say, he wasn't sure why he was saying this one, but he couldn't seem to stop. “When we were kids. You were my first kiss.”

Luke's smile looked sad, but not as much as Han would have expected. “You were mine, too.” He took a step forward until they were only a few inches apart, his eyes darting down to Han's lips for a fraction of a second. “And last?”

Time felt like it had slowed down as they both leaned in, and Han wished it really had.

The anxious pit in his stomach had continued to grow until it felt like it might be the size of a small planet, and with less than an inch between them, it popped, and he couldn't will himself any further.

“You don't have to kiss me,” Luke said after a few seconds. “I just thought--”

“No, I…” Han leaned back slightly and bit the inside of his cheek. “What if you didn't have to...stay dead?”

“I mean, that’d be ideal.”

Something clicked, and Han wasn't sure where this was coming from, but he decided not to question it when he whispered, “No one can know. Get back in.”

Luke frowned, but he climbed back into the casket, shuffling around until he was back in the same position Han had found him in.

“I need to figure out how to get you outta here,” Han said, hesitating with his hands on the lid. “Just stay really still until I get back.”

Luke nodded, shooting him a smile that made his joints feel like they'd turned to jelly, and Han lowered the lid of the casket when Luke closed his eyes.

He almost forgot to put the chair back into place from where Luke had grabbed it earlier, biting back a smile at the casket before slinking back out.

Chewie pointedly looked from his watch to Han. “Took your time. Who was it?”

“He doesn't know,” Han said, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide that he couldn't stop fidgeting. _“Didn't_ know. Didn't see it.”

“So he just got thrown overboard with no--” He paused, pointing towards Han’s eye. “Your eye’s twitchin’ again.”

“No, it’s not.” It did. “It’s allergies.”

“That why you're sweating too?”

“It's--it’s warm in there, you know, I'm.” He cleared his throat. “I'm gonna stay for the service.”

“Mm _hm.”_

“Just, paying my respects, I knew the family. You can take the car, there’s a bus back--”

“I’ll get the bus,” Chewie said, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Han nodded a little too enthusiastically, his hand on the doorknob, and Chewie stared for another few seconds before turning to the front door.

Han couldn't help bouncing on his heels as he waited for Chewie to leave, rushing back into the viewing room as soon as he was out of the door.

The casket was gone.

He hadn’t noticed, earlier, the other door at the other side of the room with a small _staff only_ sign.

 _“Ohh_ my god.”

Chewie had already left when he made it to the street, just in time to hear the engine of a hearse start up before taking off down the road.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” Han kept muttering to himself as he fumbled with his car keys, the tires screeching as he tore off to follow the hearse, immeasurably thankful with the last coherent part of his mind that Chewie had decided to take the bus.

He lost the hearse around a corner, swearing under his breath until he remembered, clear as anything, the drive from his house to the cemetery all those years ago, finding his bearings a couple streets down.

Lying in the dark, Luke considered how he came to be lying in the dark. He considered his life with his aunt and uncle Beru and Owen, whose paranoid tendencies due to the sudden and mysterious death of his father had kept his adventures confined to books and a small black-and-white television. He never strayed far from home. Life was good enough until, one day, it wasn’t; Luke wanted more, but he got more than he bargained for the moment he walked into the kitschy travel agency and found the fate his aunt and uncle had been fearing for nearly two decades.

The hearse was parked and empty once he finally found it, two figures with the casket up a hill a little ways off.

The decision Han made, before the car had come to a complete stop, felt more automatic than conscious; he was running up the hill two minutes and twenty seconds later, his lungs burning by the time he came to a stop at the top.

“I think someone's car is on fire,” he said breathlessly, pointing over his shoulder.

“Shit,” one of the caretakers shouted, running down the hill with the other one, and Han didn't stop to catch his breath before running those last few feet to the casket.

When he opened it, his heart could have stopped, and he wouldn't have noticed.

“Sorry I'm late.”

Luke's smile was bright enough to light up the grave he had almost been put into.

“We gotta run,” Han said, almost holding out a hand to help Luke up before jerking it back and stepping away. “I might have had to commit a little arson.”

“A little?” Luke asked, his eyes going wide when he saw the hearse at the bottom of the hill, distant sirens wailing a second later. “That's one way to do it.”

“I was in a _hurry,_ just...” He looked over his shoulder to make sure the caretakers were still occupied. “Come on, we gotta go.”

 

Han still had too many things to say to Luke, and he couldn't figure out how to say any of them.

Luke was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive, looking at Han with a softness in his eyes that made his chest feel funny every time he looked in the rear view mirror.

“How does this work?”

“What?”

“This,” Luke repeated, gesturing vaguely towards himself. “All of this, I dunno.”

“I touch someone, they come back for a minute, I touch them again, and they…” He trailed off with a shrug. “They die again. For good that time.”

“Why only a minute?”

“Just is. I don't know.”

Luke hummed, and he went quiet again, and then, “So we can't touch.”

Han shook his head.

“What if you need a hug?”

He almost missed his turn then, the thought of it making his head go fuzzy; distancing himself from close personal relationships for fear of doing what he had just done had never been particularly conducive to getting hugs, and he hadn't thought he'd minded it much until Luke brought it up.

“Not really big on hugs,” he said stiffly.

“Then you haven't been hugged properly,” Luke said, and Han ran straight into a pothole when he couldn't take his eyes away from Luke's in the rear view mirror. “So a kiss is out of the question?”

The car made a rough _wump-wump-wump_ when Han went a little too far into the shoulder before he swerved back to the middle of the road. “Um.”

Luke was smiling at him again when he snuck a quick glance to the mirror.

Both of them were quiet for a few minutes, Han gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white to try to keep his focus on the road and not Luke, or all the things he still had to say to Luke, or the way the sun glinted off his hair.

“How long were you thinking about this?” Luke asked eventually.

“This?”

He pointed to himself.

Han shrugged. “Wasn't really thinking,” he mumbled. “I wasn't, like, dwelling on it--maybe a little, but.” He frowned to himself and shook his head. “I don't know. I couldn't make myself touch you again.”

“Well,” Luke said, “I'm glad you didn't.”

“Me too,” Han said quietly.

“I always wondered if you would come back,” Luke said, and the _always_ made Han's chest feel funny. “Guess you did just in time.”

“Before you died probably would've been better.”

“Not dead now,” Luke said.

Han couldn't help smiling at that.

 

He had to circle the block a couple times to make sure they wouldn't be seen on their way to the Pie Hole; it seemed empty, closed an hour and a half before, and Han carefully ushered Luke inside before locking the door and peeking through the blinds to make sure they hadn't been noticed.

“This is yours?”

Han nodded, checking that the lock was actually locked, and then checking it again just in case.

“It’s nice,” Luke said, turning in a circle to take in the large room, looking over the counter to the kitchen. “Your mom’s pies were so good.”

Han awkwardly nodded again and stuffed his hands in his pockets. It hadn't seemed like a good idea before, but he hadn't taken the time to think at all about what kind of idea it really was; back in the familiarity of the Pie Hole, it started to really sink in, the fact that someone else had had to die, the fact that he had done the one thing he had told himself he would never do, but he _had._

He still couldn't bring himself to care as much as he thought he should whenever he looked at Luke, and found himself caring even less when Luke's face lit up at the sound of nails tapping against the linoleum, Digby running out from behind the counter a second later.

“Oh, puppy…” Luke cooed, scratching under his chin.

“That’s Digby.”

“Wasn't your other dog…?” Luke trailed off, his eyes going wide, looking from Digby to Han and back again. “Is this him?”

“Same Digby,” Han said, picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on his pants.

“You do this a lot?”

“Just you two,” Han said, and Luke's smile made him feel warm.

It was mostly true; he had kept his mother alive, unaware of any consequences, but Luke and Digby were still the only ones who had stayed that way.

He still couldn't find the words to explain that consequence to Luke, and had an excuse not to when Chewie came in from the furthest back room where the refrigerators were with a plate of pie and a look that made Han's insides sink into his shoes.

He glanced pointedly at Luke and jerked his head towards the back room.

“Could you just, um.” Han took a shaky breath and gestured vaguely in front of himself. “Hang on a sec.”

Luke didn't get a chance to respond before Chewie yanked Han to the back room by his sleeve.

“Dead dude.”

“I know--”

“Explain.”

“I--just--”

“You got a _dead dude_ in your _kitchen,”_ Chewie hissed. “Who is supposed to be in the ground, when we are supposed to be cashing in on it.”

Han winced, glancing behind him with a desperate hope that Luke hadn't heard. “It was an accident.”

“Uh _huh.”_

Chewie stared at him for a few seconds, not breaking eye contact to take a bite of pie.

“No follow up to that?”

Han stiffly lifted his shoulders in something close to a shrug.

“You better find one, ‘cause we are down fifty grand and up a _dead guy.”_

Han opened his mouth for a response he was hoping would find him in the moment, but he jumped when he heard Luke come in behind him.

“Fifty grand?”

Han’s throat felt too tight to get the words out, and all he managed was an awkward, “Um.”

Luke raised his eyebrows, looking from Han to Chewie.

“Fifty grand,” he repeated.

Han looked from Luke to Chewie, who only shrugged and took another bite of pie.

“We, um,” Han started, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “We solve murders. And get the reward.”

Luke's eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened to ‘so justice can be served’?”

“It’s that too, if we didn't do it, they'd just get away with it,” Han tried to explain. “I wouldn't have even known you were dead otherwise,” he added quietly.

Luke took a slow, deep breath and reached down to pet Digby’s head without taking his eyes off of Han. “And you were gonna get fifty grand for me.”

 _“Were,”_ Chewie emphasized.

Luke nodded slowly; he didn't say anything for a minute, and each second made Han's chest feel tighter, until, “And you split it fifty-fifty.”

Chewie nodded.

“How about thirty-thirty-forty,” Luke said, his tone making it clear it wasn't a question.

“We don't know who killed you--” Han started, but Chewie cut him off.

“Why thirty-thirty-forty?”

“I'm the one who died for it,” Luke said sharply.

“We still don't get _it_ if we don't know who killed you,” Chewie said. “Which we don't.”

“I might know where we can start,” Luke said, and that was enough to get Chewie to put his plate down on the counter.

Where they could start was the travel agency that had sent Luke on his first and last trip, an all expenses paid cruise offered to him when he had been looking for something that would fit into his savings, and things that sound too good to be true usually are.

“I just had to bring a package with me,” Luke concluded.

“Oh my god,” Han groaned, dropping his head to his hands.

“What?”

“Pretty sure you were a drug mule,” Chewie said.

“They were just monkeys,” Luke said, clarifying when Han and Chewie looked blankly back at him. “Like, plaster or something. The woman at the agency said it was a gift.”

“Still pretty sure you were a drug mule,” Chewie mumbled.

“Oh my god,” Han said again.

Luke just shrugged and went back to petting Digby.

“We’re not gonna get anyone this late,” Chewie said, looking at his watch. “You know the address?”

Luke nodded.

“First thing,” Chewie said, pointing at Han.

“I know,” Han said. “Listen, I gotta...we gotta leave early…” He trailed off, gesturing up for his apartment a few floors above.

Chewie nodded, waiting for Luke to head back out to the main room before tugging Han back for a second.

“Who died?”

“What?”

“Someone else had to die so you could play house with this dude,” Chewie whispered. “Who was it?”

“I don't know,” Han mumbled awkwardly. “I didn’t stick around. It’s a...random proximity thing.”

 _“I_ was in proximity,” Chewie said, smacking Han’s shoulder, “dumbass.”

“Didn't die, though.”

Chewie shook his head and picked up his plate of pie again. “You know how monumentally stupid this was?”

“You just agreed to be his business partner.”

“You think I'm not gonna profit off of that stupidity?” Chewie snorted, adding through a mouthful of pie, “I'm not that stupid. You in love with this guy? ‘Cause this is that level of stupid.”

 _“No,_ just.” Han sighed; it hadn't sounded very convincing. “This is all really confusing, okay, childhood issues--”

“We all got childhood issues, I've got all the horror stories, you really think--”

“I might have killed his dad when I was ten.”

Chewie’s fork clanked noisily against the plate. “Maybe not horror stories.” He paused. “Still just as stupid.”

Han nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing pointedly towards the main room.

“You can call me stupid all you want tomorrow, but I had to light a car on fire and rob a grave today, so…”

“Christ,” Chewie muttered, waving him off. “I _am_ gonna call you stupid all I want tomorrow.”

“I don't doubt it,” Han said over his shoulder as he went to follow Luke.

“‘Cause it’s really fucking stupid.”

“I know,” he shouted back, and he didn't have to force his smile like he had thought he would when he found Luke waiting for him at the counter.

“You two done in there?”

Han nodded, and he almost reached out to help Luke out of the tall stool before jerking his hand back again. “I just live upstairs.”

Han couldn't help glancing at him while they waited for the rickety elevator to reach Han’s floor, and every time he did, Luke looked away like he'd just been staring, too, biting his lip like he was trying not to smile.

Han’s chest felt warm.

He had to fumble with the lock a couple times until he got his door opened, the key shaking with his hand.

“You can take the bed,” he said, gesturing towards his room. “And whatever clothes you need, the stuff on the chair is...mostly clean.”

Luke's eyes crinkled at the corners. “Okay.”

“Actually, hold on,” Han said, carefully sidestepping Luke to get to his room.

It had been a long time since anyone but Han and Digby had been in his apartment, and it showed in the mess he hastily shoved under his bed and into the closet before rushing back out.

 _“Now_ you can take the bed.”

Luke's grin turned into a grimace, and he wiped at his cheek, pinching his fingertips together. “What is this?”

“So you'd look…” Han gestured vaguely towards his face. “Not dead.”

“Oh.” Luke wrinkled his nose. “It feels gross.”

“There's stuff in the bathroom,” Han said, pointing to another door near the one to his bedroom. “Like. Face wash. And probably an extra toothbrush under the sink.”

Luke nodded and followed where he was pointing, and Han went to look for a blanket for the couch pushed against the wall.

The thick makeup was a close match to how Luke’s skin looked naturally without the side effects of being dead, a little too clear, the pink on his cheeks a little too pink until he smudged it away, his hair a little too neat.

He ducked his head under the faucet to wash out whatever had been put in to style it, loosening the tie and the collar of the stiff suit he had been put in.

It wasn't what he would have decided to wear if he had had any say in it.

He looked up at himself in the mirror, and then he couldn't look away.

There was a faint line around his neck, only visible when he rubbed away the last of the makeup. He lightly pressed at it with his fingertips, the spots going pale and then pink again, pressing at his face and turning his head to see the lighting change with each movement.

He hadn't had much time to get used to the fact that he was dead, let alone the fact that he wasn't anymore, and seeing himself in the suit he had almost been buried in didn't seem to make it sink in any more.

The thought that it could all be a dream and he would shortly wake up back on the cruise ship hadn't yet crossed his mind, and as soon as it did, he realized it couldn't be the case.

The last few hours had felt surreal, but at the same time, too real to be anything less; he had _died,_ he had felt it--nothing, after he stopped being able to breathe--but everything since then had felt so clear, the sun on his face during the drive back and the way his heart pounded when he looked at Han, the softness of Digby’s fur, even the hems of the starchy dress shirt.

Luke managed to tear his eyes away from the mirror with a deep breath before walking back out to Han.

Han went from anxiously fumbling with one of the blankets he'd laid out to smiling that same disbelieving smile before Luke could blink.

“You look better without all that stuff on your face.”

“Feels better without all that stuff,” Luke said, scratching at nothing on his cheek to hide the flush he could feel creeping over his face.

Neither of them said anything for a minute, neither of them breaking eye contact, until Digby whined and bumped his nose against Luke’s leg.

“Um.” Luke awkwardly cleared his throat and reached down to scratch Digby’s head. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Luke still couldn't look away for a minute, and suddenly the words were coming out before he could stop them. “I'd kiss you if it wouldn't kill me.”

He caught a glance of Han looking like he was melting, a flush over his cheeks to match Luke's, as he darted to Han’s room before either of them could say anything else.

He left his suit with the rest of the not-quite-clean clothes on the chair Han had mentioned, digging through a few messy drawers for an old shirt and a pair of sweatpants that were a little too long.

There was an anxious, excited buzz in his bones that he knew would be keeping him up, and he looked around for the remote that had fallen to the floor by the bed to switch on the small TV in the corner.

He flipped through the reality shows and police procedurals, frowning at the body on the screen before he switched to the next channel, and after another two channels, he stopped.

_“--agency has offered a fifty-thousand dollar reward for any information regarding the murder of--”_

He turned the TV off.

He had never expected to be famous, or really wanted to, and being famous for being strangled and thrown into the sea was the last way he would have wanted it to happen.

He thought of the not-really-dead body on the screen a few channels previous, and he hoped he hadn't looked like that, pulled out of the water with a bag over his head.

It was so undignified.

He lay down and pulled the blankets up to his chin, burying his face in the pillow for the smell of Han’s hair; the seconds kept ticking by, and he wasn't sure when he decided to go back out to Han, but he did.

Luke tiptoed over to the couch, crouching down beside it and then scooting back another few inches for good measure.

“Hey, Han?”

There was no response.

“Han.”

Luke looked around until he found a slipper that looked like Digby had chewed on it, poking it against Han’s arm.

“Han.”

Han almost slid off the couch when he jerked awake, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Is everything okay?”

“Would I still be alive if I knew who killed me?”

Han blinked at him a couple times before stiffly sitting up. “I didn't not-touch you for that, what--?”

“On the news,” Luke said. “They were talking about the reward.”

“I told you--”

“I know,” Luke interrupted again, “you wouldn't have known I had even died otherwise, but…” He trailed off, biting his lip, lifting his shoulders in a quick shrug before he continued. “When were you going to tell me?”

Luke wished he could stay on track instead of thinking of how cute Han looked when he was nervous.

Han wished he could stop thinking about the other thing he still had to tell Luke.

“Dying and then not being dead kinda seemed like enough for one day,” Han said tentatively. “I didn't want you to think this was just for that.”

“Wasn't it?”

Han took a deep breath. “I told Chewie to stay outside.”

Luke raised an eyebrow.

“When I--at the funeral home. He usually comes in too, but I told him to wait.”

“So you _were_ planning this.”

Han shook his head. “It didn't feel right doing it like with--the other times. When I do this,” Han said. “This was different.”

Luke's expression was hard to read until his lips quirked upwards at the corners. “And then?”

“I just couldn't...make you...be dead again.” Han shrugged, wringing his hands in his lap. “You shouldn't have had to die in the first place.”

Luke's hand twitched, almost reaching out before remembering and thinking better of it. “Okay.” He paused. “I'm still getting the bigger share.”

“You'd get all of it if it was up to me.”

Luke grinned, and Han didn't miss when his eyes darted down towards his lips before he stood up. “Goodnight for real.”

“Goodnight,” Han said again, and he couldn't help staring at the door Luke had just gone into for a few seconds after it closed.

The bed and the couch were parallel, separated only by the wall; Luke rolled onto his side, pressing his hand to the wallpaper, and unbeknownst to both of them, Han did the same on his side.

 

There was a sticky note taped to the lamp on the bedside table when Luke woke up; Han’s handwriting wasn't much neater than when they were kids, a scrawled _PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE This APARTMENT_ with a tiny heart in the corner.

Luke smiled.

It didn't take too long to find some of Han's clothes that were a close enough fit not to look too out of place, grabbing a pair of aviators on his way out the door for good measure.

He had been on a lot of news channels.

There was no one else in the hall when he looked out the peephole, but the door adjacent to Han’s closed the second Luke got outside.

The woman at the other door stared, not taking her eyes off Luke while she reached behind herself to turn the lock.

“I'm a…” Luke scrambled, “I'm a friend of Han's.”

Her eyes narrowed; Luke couldn't breathe.

She shook her head to herself as she left for the elevator a few seconds later, mumbling under her breath, “Han doesn't have any _friends…”_

Luke sagged against the door with a deep sigh, waiting for the _ding_ of the elevator before walking over to wait for it to come back up.

He went around the front of the building, looking up at the pie crust on the outside wall before going inside.

He heard Han and that friend of his--Chewie, he remembered a second later--before he saw them in a booth by the wall; he hesitated by the door.

There was a smack of a newspaper hitting the table, and Luke saw Han’s shoulders sag.

“Oh,” Han said.

_“Yeah.”_

“I mean, it says.” Han pointed to something on the table. “He stole stuff from dead people, he was a pretty bad guy--”

“That make you feel better?”

“Yes,” Han said. “It makes me feel a lot better when it could have been...you, for example.”

Chewie chucked the newspaper at Han’s chest, and Luke took a deep breath and forced himself over, sliding into the space next to Chewie.

“Oh my god,” Han said, whispering another, “Oh my _god,”_ a second later.

“Are we leaving soon?”

 _“What?”_ Han hissed.

“For the travel agency,” Luke said.

“We,” Chewie said, gesturing between the three of them, “aren't doing anything.”

“You're supposed to be inside,” Han grumbled through his hands over his face. “You're supposed to be _dead,_ you can’t be--”

He straightened up a little too conspicuously at the sound of footsteps coming over, the same woman from upstairs sliding a plate of pie over to Chewie.

She looked knowingly from Han to Luke, and he could have sworn his heart stopped a second time when she said, “You know you look like that guy on the news?” She looked back to Han. “The dead one?”

“Looks a lot like that guy on the news,” Chewie mumbled.

“That's a good thing,” the woman clarified. “He was pretty cute.”

Han didn't manage to sink into the chair however hard he tried to.

“Coffee?”

“Aren't you supposed to work here too?”

“Please?”

Leia rolled her eyes, giving Luke another look that made both him and Han freeze up, but she left for the kitchen without another word.

“You're supposed to be dead,” Han said again once she was out of earshot. “You can’t--”

“He might come in handy,” Chewie said. “Who gave you the monkeys?”

“The owner of the agency,” Luke said. “Deedee something.”

“You're good for the dead ones,” Chewie said, pointing his fork at Han. “This lady ain't dead.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am dead serious,” Chewie said, and when Han shot him a look, _“Very_ serious.”

“Just this one time,” Han said, and then looking to Luke. “This _one_ time.”

 

It would not be that one time, but the woman at the agency was also not alive; after the last day or so, Han should have realized that even the best laid plans will go awry, and his plans were not the best laid anyway.

The small sign in the door was on _closed,_ but the door was unlocked, and Chewie led them inside.

“Oh, Christ.”

“Oh--”

“Is that how they found me? That’s humiliating.”

Deedee-something was slumped in her chair behind a desk laden with pamphlets, a plastic bag around her head of the same design as the one that had killed Luke.

The reward, offered by the agency in the hopes of catching Luke’s killer before Luke's killer caught her, had not served its intended purpose.

“Guess I can’t be that mad if she's dead too,” Luke mumbled.

Chewie locked the door and pulled the curtains shut, poking his head into the back room before nodding at Han.

Han sat down in the chair across from her, Luke leaning against the other end of the table.

Han hesitated.

“Get a move on,” Chewie said, glancing out the window.

“I just…” Han looked from the dead woman to Luke. “It feels weird doing it in front of you.”

Chewie groaned. “They're both dead, hurry it up.”

“He’s not dead,” Han mumbled.

Luke held a hand over his eyes, peeking through his fingers when Han reached out to pull the bag from her head before touching her arm.

“Okay...” she said slowly, straightening up, and she grinned when she saw Luke. “Hey, cutie.”

“Hey, Deedee.”

“How'd I know I'd be running into you when I got to…” She paused, looking between the three of them. “Which one is this?”

“Neither,” Luke said. “Maybe both. We have to ask you some questions--”

“Does everyone get to do this?”

“No,” Luke said. “Did you know I would be killed when you sent me on that cruise?”

Deedee shrugged, frowning more like she’d been caught stealing a cookie than like she actually felt remorse. “There was...the possibility, but…I'm dead, what the hell. If there wasn't, I would have done it myself. This is pretty fun--”

“Ask who killed her and what the deal is with the monkeys,” Chewie said, tapping at his watch.

Deedee leaned in closer to Luke. “Who are these guys?”

“That’s Chewie, I don't really know him, and this is Han.”

Luke smiled at him, and Han forgot the time constraint for a second.

Deedee shot Han a grin that he figured was supposed to be flirty, leaning towards him across the desk. “Aren't you just--”

She touched his cheek, and didn't get the chance to pinch before dropping to the desk.

Han froze. “Oh my god.”

Chewie stared blankly at him. “You couldn't have just…” He shrugged, gesturing between Han and Deedee. “Moved back a little?”

“I didn't think she was going to do that,” Han said. “Who _does_ that--?”

“She does,” Luke said. “Kind of a lot.”

Chewie snorted. “Didn't think that might be helpful to mention?”

“I didn't think she would--”

Chewie held his hands out in front of him and shook his head. “Whatever. Why would whoever killed you kill her too if they got the monkeys?”

“I dropped my key in the ice first,” Luke said. “Maybe they couldn't get to my room.”

Chewie nodded and pulled the curtain aside to look out the window. “We really--”

“When you die on a boat,” Luke interrupted, “where do they send your stuff?”

“I think,” Han started, letting out a slow breath when he realized what that would mean, “I think it goes to your next of kin.”

Luke blanched.

 

Luke strapped himself into the front passenger seat before Han could tell him otherwise, pointing out that it wasn't as if they would be at risk of touching each other with Han's hands on the wheel.

The drive to Han and Luke’s childhood hometown wasn't any less stressful than the day before.

“You stay here,” Han said once they arrived, keeping his eyes firmly away from the empty house across the street.

“Can I at least look in the window?”

“Someone could see you,” Han said. _“They_ could see you.”

“They barely know anyone, I just want to see if they're okay--”

“Luke…”

“Who would they even tell?”

“They can’t know you're alive,” Han said. “There's...you're supposed to be _dead,_ that’s when people come over with pitchforks, not congratulations-on-being-alive-again pies.”

“I feel like a cake would be better for that,” Luke said. “You can’t really write on--”

“Would you shut up about desserts so we can get to it?” Chewie interrupted.

 _“Yes,”_ Han said, opening the car door before Luke could press it. “And you can, actually, there are--”

“Shut up,” Chewie said again.

Han did, but Luke's face fell, and if it wouldn't kill him, Han wouldn't have been able to resist the urge to lean over and hug him.

“Can you give him a hug?” he asked Chewie.

“Are you serious?”

“Please?”

Chewie rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around Luke and the back of his chair, and Luke's smile made Han's chest feel almost as warm as if he'd hugged Luke himself.

“Please stay here this time,” Han said before he closed the door.

Luke shrugged, and Han stared until he nodded and leaned back in the seat, mouthing, “I’m staying.”

Han frowned, but Chewie pulled him towards the house by his sleeve before he could say anything else.

There was the quiet _swish_ of a peephole being opened when Han knocked on the door, which then opened a crack with a chain in front of Luke's aunt’s face.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember, um--I'm a--I was a friend of Luke's, I used to live across the street--”

“Oh, Han!” The door shut again, the chain removed before Beru pulled the door open. “I was wondering if you would be at the service.”

Han had to suppress a shudder. “I. Found out a little late, I'm sorry--”

“No, no, come in.” She stepped to the side, shouting towards the next room, “Owen! We have guests.”

“We weren't expecting--” Owen started, but he stopped when he made it to the entryway.

“You remember Han,” Beru prompted.

“Huh.”

“This is Chewie,” Han said, after an awkward couple seconds of silence. “He's visiting. And he can’t drive. So he had to come with me.”

Chewie shot him a look that Han pointedly ignored.

“Come in,” Beru said again, leading them into the living room.

Owen looked at them with an expression Han couldn't quite read before following her.

“We checked they're okay, they're okay,” Chewie whispered. “We said we would call the cops and _go.”_

“Just a minute,” Han whispered back.  “She invited us in, I can’t just say no.”

“Could if you really wanted to,” Chewie grumbled, smiling brightly at Beru as he sat down on the couch across from her and Owen.

“Our neighbor a few houses down has goats,” Beru said, smearing some cheese on a cracker and holding it out to Chewie. “This one has a grassy flavor.”

“It does have a grassy flavor.”

“You should try it with Luke's honey,” Owen said, somewhere between proud and stiffly not-sad-at-all-what-are-you-suggesting.

“Luke makes--he made honey?”

“He has a hive in the yard,” Beru said, and Han tried not to look too relieved that he wasn't the only one slipping into the present tense.

Luke took a look at his hive in the yard on his way from the car to the window, his heart warmed and heavy at the same time; he had wanted for so long to get away from the house that had felt so stifling, and now he couldn't remember why. He loved his bees, he loved his aunt and uncle, however sheltered they had kept him, and he had loved not being dead, even if he wasn't anymore.

He left the window for the trellis that reached to his room, scaling the wall before he could see anything else.

“Not to change the subject,” Han said awkwardly, “but was Luke's stuff sent back to you yet?”

Beru nodded, and Owen’s eyes narrowed.

“Like a…briefcase, specifically?”

“Oh, yes,” Beru said, standing up and heading to the staircase. “You sit tight.”

At that same moment, having tumbled in through the window, Luke opened the briefcase, revealing the two plaster monkeys that had taken him to his death.

He heard footsteps on the stairs, too light to be Han’s; he stuffed the monkeys into his pockets and climbed back out to the trellis just before Beru came in.

What neither of them had noticed was the figure standing in a dark corner of the hallway, silently following Beru into Luke’s old room.

Downstairs, Han only managed a couple minutes of Owen silently looking between him and Chewie before he said, “I’ll go see if she needs any help.”

The first thing he saw was the briefcase, and then everything went blurry.

Luke had made it a few notches down on the trellis when he heard a shout and a thump, getting back up to the window just in time to see a man holding a plastic bag over Han's head.

All thoughts of his aunt and uncle and the risk of being seen disappeared from his head as he toppled back in through the window; he slammed the briefcase into the back of the man’s head, the force of it knocking him back against the wall.

The man turned to Luke, and Han fell to the floor, gasping as he pulled the bag off of his head.

“Didn't I kill you?”

Luke didn't get the chance to answer before he heard the click of a gun being cocked.

“You'll have to try a lot harder than that.”

Luke froze, and so did Han.

The door to his bedroom was set just far enough into the wall of the hallway that, as long as he kept his back pressed to the wall, Beru could only see Han and the space the other man had just been occupying, until a shotgun blast sent him through the window.

Han couldn't take his eyes off of Luke, overcome with a warmth that he knew was out of place and at least mildly inappropriate for the situation he had found himself in, later identifying that feeling as delight; the childhood sweetheart he had taken from death had returned the favor.

Han only managed to look away when he heard the _click_ of the gun’s safety being turned on; he hurriedly ushered Beru to the stairs to give Luke time to climb back out the shattered window, and he heard the dull _thud_ of Luke kicking the corpse on the ground just before Owen and Chewie came running up to them.

Luke had left by the time the four of them peered out the window to see the dead man lying in a plot of turnips.

 

Han dropped Chewie off on their way back to the Pie Hole, the silence of the rest of the drive somehow heavier without him sitting quietly in the back of the car.

Han had to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road and not on Luke.

“Are you okay?”

Luke shrugged.

The next few minutes were as silent as all the previous ones.

Han pulled up to an empty spot around the corner from the Pie Hole, but the streets were empty and quiet, too late for anyone else to be out; Han sat down at a bench by the door instead of taking Luke right inside.

“I'm sorry you can’t see them again,” he said eventually, his chest aching with the inability to reach for Luke's hand. “It’s just--”

“I know.”

Luke looked down at Han's hand with an expression that looked the same as Han felt.

“Was this really just...some act of kindness?” he asked, and then when Han looked confused, “Not touching me again. When you brought me back. Were you really just trying to do something good because of how I died?”

“I was being selfish.” Luke’s face fell, and Han hastily continued. “I'd tell myself I was being unselfish, but I was being unselfish for selfish reasons.”

Luke tilted his head.

“I just missed you.”

Luke's smile was slow to spread over his face, but when it did, it seemed brighter than the street lights above them.

“That's it?”

No, Han wanted to say--or didn't want to, really, he couldn't tell, but he _should_ say it, should tell Luke the real reason for his father’s death; all he did was nod.

Luke took a deep breath, pulling his jacket borrowed from Han's closet tighter around himself before sitting up a little straighter.

“I figured, since I did die for them,” he said, pulling one of the monkeys from his pocket, “I should get to keep one. And since I wouldn't be alive now without you...” He took out the second one and placed it between him and Han. “You should get to keep the other one.”

It was like those heart pendants in two pieces, Han thought, but his throat felt too tight to say it.

“Thank you for bringing me back to life.”

Han waited for Luke to pull his hand back before reaching for the monkey; he didn't take his eyes away from Luke, and Luke didn't take his eyes away from him as they tapped the monkeys’ painted-on mouths together.

“Oh, this is--really heavy, I thought you said these were…”

Han looked from the monkeys to Luke, his eyes growing wide as Luke grinned.

Careful to keep their hands from touching, they slammed the monkeys together, the plaster coating shattering to reveal the solid gold underneath.

“That…” Luke said, “makes more sense.”

 

It was another two days and thirteen hours before it became clear that Han’s rule of Luke staying hidden and not coming to any more dead-wakings, unexpected or otherwise, would not be listened to.

Chewie was not particularly pleased that his two-way split with Han had turned into thirds for more than just the reward that had gone to Beru and Owen.

Luck was not with them when the coroner at the morgue that day was the same coroner Han and Chewie had met a week before.

“You the toxicologist?” he asked Luke.

Luke nodded.

“Don't see why you’d need a toxicologist for a stabbing.” He looked at Han. “Ain't you that dog expert from last week?”

Han’s eye twitched. “I...have...multiple jobs.”

“Uh _huh.”_

Chewie slipped him a folded-up wad of bills on their way into the freezer room.

“Couldn't have come up with something better than that?”

“Lots of people have multiple jobs,” Han said. “Like...the economy…”

“Just get to the dead dude.”

The dead dude in question had been thirty-seven years, six days and forty-five minutes old when he had met his demise in a public park, when a knife had met his insides four times.

“You sure you're okay seeing this?” Han asked.

Luke nodded cheerily and waved towards the corpse on the examination table.

Han touched the man’s shoulder, but before Hsn could ask who had introduced him to the knife, Luke asked, “Do you have any final words or requests?”

“Told you this was a bad idea,” Chewie mumbled behind them.

Han didn't succeed in keeping a dumbstruck, lovesick smile off his face.

Luke frowned. “What?”

“Just something I never thought to ask,” Han said quietly.

As he said it, his eyes still glued to Luke, he clasped his hands together around his back, pretending he was holding Luke's; without knowing, Luke did the same, pretending he was holding Han’s.

**Author's Note:**

> @hansolosbi dot tumblr dot com!


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